Without the Black Stone, the altar of human skulls continued to emanate a sickly radiance. Bran suspected that the skulls had been treated with some phosphorescent substance, recalling the phosphorus-smeared altar in Dagon’s Ring. The serpent-folk evidently held in awe the light they could no longer endure, and their ghastly rites had incorporated the wan phosphorescence as a sick mockery of that which they feared.
Bran did not wait alone. Half a dozen of Claudius Nero’s legionaries watched impassively before the cage. In the poor light that seeped from the cairn of skulls without the Black Stone’s influence, the Pict could see very little of those who guarded him. From their armor and weapons, they might have been Romans, albeit their stature was slight even for the men of Rome. The eyes beneath the plundered helmets glowed in amber slants, and the few words they spoke were in Latin made unintelligible through slurring sibilants. While they stood their watch like trained soldiers, it occurred to Bran that no legionaries would have passed the tedious duty in near silence.
Their presence here proved that Ssrhythssaa had taken every precaution. Bran was unchained, but the iron cage had earlier resisted the full limit of his strength-nor in the hours since his capture had the Pict been able to discover any weakness in either bars or fastening. Trapped here, in the unknown depths of the earth, where his friends could never win through to him even if they so tried-because Bran had commanded Gonar and Grom to secrecy, to allow their king to play a lone hand. The presence of armed guards was only the most final of precautions-a bleak reminder to the Pict that even if by some miracle he broke free of his cage, this cordon of armed warriors would put an abrupt and certain end to such abortive escape.
For a space Bran considered rushing headlong across the cage and smashing his skull into the bars. Though the cage was cramped, he might succeed in dashing out his brains or in snapping his neck, before his guards could subdue him. The idea of suicide was repugnant to him, for it implied surrender to his fate.
Even so, Bran might have made the attempt-but he remembered the reanimated corpses he had seen in the Black Stone’s phantasmagoria-this the abominable power of the serpent-folk in another land and another age. Did Ssrhythssaa command this dark power as well-or was this part of the elder knowledge lost by the People of the Dark across millennia of degeneration? Bran could not be certain. It would be better, perhaps, to bide his time-and hope that Ssrhythssaa would err.
And if he tried suicide, and failed-knocking himself senseless in the attempt-they Would surely bind him hand and foot. The thought of waiting helplessly, like some trussed sacrificial victim in the wicker cages of the Druids, was more than he could endure.
But-if he tried suicide, they would have to enter his cage, attempt to subdue him. He might break away from them, plunge into the dark passages, elude the hordes of the serpent-folk who doubtlessly lurked in the blackness beyond…
Another desperate plan, serving mainly to stave off madness and despair. Yet again, he had heard nothing more of Morgain. Could she have evaded them? If she could win free, could not he do the same?
Bran knew what the chances were for either of them ever to see the light of day again. Still, he could try. One desperate chance, with failure certain to wipe out any other chance that might come along… Hopelessness is an iron cell…
A tall figure abruptly strode into the pool of light. At first Bran thought it must be Ssrhythssaa returning to commence the hellish sorcery, for his guards had evidenced no alarm.
Bran was in error, the figure was that of Death, and the guards had had no warning.
Bran recognized Liuba in that astonished instant-the lithe feminine figure beneath the clinging tunic of chainmail, the swing of the raven-black hair at her nape. But the long silver sword was unsheathed now, and as she fell upon them, the sword was in motion.
The first guard died without ever knowing what killed him. A flash of her blade as she came past, and his head and helmet spun lazily away from the stump of his neck-clattering grotesquely across the stone as his corpse slowly toppled after them.
Already Liuba was moving past the second of the guards, closing with a third. Bran wondered why the second guard ignored the woman, then saw the spatter of the arc of blood-saw him lose interest in the shield he tried to raise, drop the shield, pitch forward over the spilled tangle of entrails that Liubas slashing backhand had torn from beneath his leather cuirass.
Bran watched in amazement. He had never seen anyone so swift and certain in his movements. Liubas long blade was an invisible flicker in her unconventional two-handed grip-striking sudden death among the startled guards.
The sword and shield of the third guard clattered to the stone an instant after the legionary tried to bring them to defense. The inhuman fist still closed about the swordhilt, and most of one shoulder followed the shield to the floor. The guard spun about, trying to reach the spouting ruin of his shoulder with what was left of his other arm.
Only a space of seconds had elapsed. The three remaining guards had only time to realize that death had leapt upon them without warning-so sudden, so unexpected, that in those first seconds no shout of alarm had been raised. With hissing cries-more from startled reflex than thought-they sought to rush upon her all at once.
Liuba whirled to face the nearest guard. Another assailant flung himself toward her back. Bran could scarcely follow the blur of Liuba’s blade as the girl pivoted strangely, slashed behind her without seeming to look-then snapped forward to engage her first opponent. The guard who had thought to attack the girl from her unprotected rear tilted back on his heels and fell like a tree, his skull split from helmet to chin.
The other guard, anticipating the attack on Liuba’s back by his fellow, faltered uncertainly. His shield dropped for an instant. Liuba’s blade licked through the exposed space between helmet and shield rim. Another helmeted head rolled across the stones.
The one remaining guard, closing from her right flank from his position at the time of her attack, was scant seconds slower in reaching the swords woman. He outlived his comrades by that many seconds. Seeing the sudden death that had claimed the others in the space of a few breaths, the last guard lost heart in the duel and fled. Liuba darted forward, blade curving downward like the flicker of summer lightning. The swordtip clove through spine with no pause for cuirass or bone.
The armless guard fell with a clash of armor even as Liuba turned from her last victim. In the interval it took to collapse, he had bled to death from two severed brachial arteries. Liuba bent over the disembowled guard to still his writhing, then stepped past their slaughtered carcasses without a backward glance. Wiping blood from the blade between thumb and forefinger, she cooly returned sword to scabbard.
Bran realized he was gaping. He was fast; his comrade Cormac na Connacht, was almost as fast; the Pictish king had never seen their equal in the countless battles and duels he had survived. Now he had. Heretofore swordplay as the Pict knew it-and Bran was a master swordsman-was hack and parry, slash and thrust-a rough and tumble brawl in which the point was used only rarely, and a strong, fast swordarm was everything-whether one fought with the sweeping two-handed blades of the Celts and Picts, or with the chopping shortswords of the armored legionary. Liuba fought as no one Bran had ever seen-with blinding speed, and with certain, deadly precision in her movements. Even in the extremity of the situation, Bran Mak Morn stood in reverent wonder of an artist whose consummate skill he could only hope to equal.